Guessing Game
by 2Distracted
Summary: Here's a game for the holidays. Try to guess which famous author I'm trying to imitate with these stories about Enterprise.
1. The Naming

Guessing Game

By 2Distracted

Rating: G to PG-13

Disclaimer: I'm still not making any money doing this.

Summary: Here begins a series of short vignettes I wrote for a writer's challenge on another website. The challenge was to write a story somehow involving the Star Trek: Enterprise characters Trip and T'Pol in the _style_ of a well known author. The readers were then supposed to guess who it was. When I'm done I'll give a listing of who I was trying to imitate for each story. To make things easier, here is a list of authors to choose from:

Douglas Adams  
Piers Anthony  
Charlotte Brontë  
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
Helen Fielding  
Ernest Hemingway  
Frank Herbert  
James Joyce  
Edgar Allen Poe  
Terry Pratchett  
JRR Tolkien  
Mark Twain  
Kurt Vonnegut

Ready? Okay… here goes.

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The Naming

By 2Distracted

Rating: PG

Genre: "Sincerest Form of Flattery" Challenge, humor

Summary: What if TnT had gone to Vulcan for other reasons than a blackmail induced marriage? Here's an AU version of what might have happened. After serious consideration, I have decided to channel an author for whom I have the utmost respect. I sincerely apologize in advance for what I am about to do. : P

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"My father was fond of saying that he would have never lived to become the president of the Federation without the help of his friends. In particular, he loved to tell stories about Commander Charles Tucker the Third, better known now in interplanetary diplomatic circles as Trip of Vulcan. I have always wondered why the Vulcans all ended up calling Charles Tucker by his childhood nickname. They're usually so proper about things like that. I asked once, and couldn't get a straight answer. I have my own theory about the name, though. It's short, easy to pronounce, and has consonants fore and aft just like every other Vulcan name. Why the hell not?"

Admiral Maria Irena Sanchez-Archer, from "Memoirs of a First Daughter"

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T'Pol led her chosen mate onto the sand. They didn't speak. The time for speaking was long past. She'd outfitted him in the traditional manner of her people. The long, loose robes and flowing head covering hid his non-Vulcan attributes well. He moved gracefully in them, as if he'd been born to wear them. She suppressed her pride in him with some effort. Now was not the time for unseemly emotion. They began walking. The eerie cry of a wild sehlat sounded in the rocky valley. He pushed ahead of her with his phase pistol drawn.

_Still he protects me, even here_, she thought. It made no sense. She was much more capable of self defense in the thin atmosphere of her homeworld than he was, even with the triox. She made no comment, though. He was so human… and so male. It was expected.

They approached the entrance to the cave complex where her forefather had agreed to meet them. T'Pol's father had died young. His father, on the other hand, was still very much alive. Stev was an eccentric for a Vulcan. Shortly after the death of his mate, when T'Pol's father had still been a relative youngster, unmarried and just starting out with the Science Directorate, Stev had disappeared into the wastes of the desert surrounding his ancestral home. He'd surfaced occasionally since then. Once, she'd been told, for her parent's marriage, once for the occasion of her birth, and she'd seen him once as a child, standing on the outskirts of her clan's burial grounds at the entombment of her father's body. He was the eldest of her male relatives still living. Tradition required that he approve her choice of mate. Why he thought he had the right to do so puzzled her, but she hadn't challenged it when he'd contacted her. It was a male thing, and therefore incomprehensible.

A figure appeared at the cave's entrance. He was lean and straight, not at all what she'd expected of an almost 200 year old. His face was hidden by the veils of his head covering. Her companion strode boldly up to the mouth of the cave with his weapon drawn. She eyed him warily, and then followed him. She pulled her weapon as well.

_Will he fire upon my forefather? What could he possibly be thinking?_

The man at the cave entrance pulled the veil from his face. He was unarmed save for a well-oiled lirpa. His hair was steely grey, and his face was weathered and lined, but his dark eyes were fixed with alertness on his opponent.

"I am Stev, first forefather of the one you would claim as mate," he told him in a voice as harsh and dry as the desert wind. "State your claim. Prove your worthiness to join my clan."

Her mate pushed back his head covering, revealing hair like burnished gold gleaming in the light of the setting suns. His blue eyes narrowed in his dusty face. His weapon stayed up.

"I don't hafta prove myself to anybody, but if ya plan to take her from me, you're in for a fight, Grampa!" he replied defiantly.

T'Pol raised a brow, and looked from one man to another with a disbelieving look on her face.

_They can't possibly be serious!_

The ancient Vulcan raised a brow at the human. His lips pursed slightly. Then he turned to T'Pol.

"This man has claimed you, daughter of my son… do you find him worthy?" he asked.

T'Pol stared back at the old Vulcan. He certainly had nerve. Without an introduction, without even an attempt at a formal greeting, he'd challenged_ her_ decision. Who was he to tell her what to do? She debated just shooting the old geezer right there on the spot… and then realized that her bond with her mate was affecting her judgment.

"I do," she replied dryly. Then she sheathed her phase pistol and deliberately walked to her mate. His eyes met hers, and his face broke out in a wide, childlike and positively irresistible smile. He sheathed his weapon and extended two fingers toward her. She reached out, and closed her eyes at the deliciously seductive tingle that ran through her body as their fingertips touched. Then she opened her eyes and faced Stev.

Her forefather nodded approvingly. Then he turned to her companion with a solemn expression.

"Charles Tucker, my son's daughter finds you worthy. Before you are accepted as a man of our clan, however, it is customary for you to choose a name of manhood… one which only our people may call you. What would you like to be called?"

Her mate's vivid eyes widened in surprise, and he looked back at her for support. She nodded her encouragement with a raised brow.

_It's your own name, you stubborn man. You have to choose it!_ she thought with exasperation. _I can't do it for you!_ He gave her a puzzled look, almost as if he'd heard her thoughts. They'd have to have a talk about the extent of their bond when all of this was over.

His face twisted then into his customary "deep thought" expression, with his tongue buried deeply in one cheek. T'Pol could practically see… no, she could definitely feel… the wheels turning inside of his head. His eyes went up to the setting suns. They narrowed in the glare.

"What do your astronomers call that triangle shaped shadow on the surface of your second sun, there?" he asked, shielding his eyes and pointing.

Stev looked taken aback by the question.

"Han-sharu Los'rak Surak," he replied in a puzzled voice. "Why do you ask?"

The human shook his head wryly. "It's kinda longer than I expected," he said in a disappointed voice. He looked up hopefully at Stev. "What does it mean?"

Stev cocked his head and raised a brow at the human's foolish questions. "Surak's Left Nostril," he replied in a deadpan voice.

There it was. T'Pol was sure of it. She was feeling her mate's overpowering need to break out into a belly laugh. There was no other explanation. The feeling certainly wasn't hers.

Her mate grinned uncomfortably at her forefather. He was biting his lip the way he customarily did just prior to a most unseemly demonstration of hilarity.

"On second thought, Gramps… why don't ya just call me Trip," he said.

End


	2. Boy Meets Girl

Boy Meets Girl

By 2Distracted

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, humor

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Summary: These things are like Lays potato chips. You can't do just one. Sorry.

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On the third planet from an ordinary yellow sun, named Sol by astronomers too long dead to explain why they named it such a dreary and uninspiring name, lived an ordinary human. He lived on a peninsula in the southern portion of a continent known by its inhabitants as North America. This peninsula was also the vacation home of the ruler of the known universe, but we'll get to that later.

This man was an engineer, and late in the twenty-second year of his life (immediately _after_ graduation from an institution of higher learning, despite what you may have heard) he was asked to join a group of intrepid, or possibly merely too-stupid-to-know-what-they-were-getting-into, aerospace engineers, warp field engineers, and pilots (Someone expendable had to fly the prototypes, after all) in the development of the first human ship capable of traveling at speeds that no human had any business traveling at… or at which no human had any business traveling… or whatever.

While he was attempting to get this ambitious project underway, a second quite ordinary being… a Vulcan female this time… was beginning a subjectively interminable stay on the western coast of said continent. I say subjectively interminable because, although her stay would end up being only two years long, she was finding confinement within a singularly _boring_ gated community composed entirely of singularly _boring_ Vulcans to be a very trying experience. The ambassador she was assigned to assist was a trifle less boring than the others, but was not really her type, so while the human engineer was busy building his engines, the Vulcan was busy revving hers up by exploring what the humans had to offer. Then she wasn't bored any longer.

Once the ship was finally built and the humans had finally greased enough Vulcan palms and kissed enough Vulcan asses to convince the Vulcans not to blow it out of space as soon as it left their system, it set off. Its crew included the engineer and the now decidedly un-bored Vulcan… among others. Their adventures were quite usual and ordinary… an alien spore here… a time traveling green-spotted stretchy fellow there… until the moment that the engineer noticed that the Vulcan was actually _female_… and then, of course, it followed that the Vulcan noticed that the engineer was actually _male_. That's when things got interesting.

While all this was happening, an alien species, known as the Xindi for some obscure reason, although they might have more appropriately been called the "species that is actually six species… oops… make that five species", decided to make war on the engineer's home planet… not because of something the humans had done, mind you, but because of something that they _might_ possibly do in the distant future provided all conditions remained the same and there was nothing else for them to do that day. They sent a probe to the third planet in the Sol system and fried a good portion of the previously mentioned peninsula on the southern aspect of North America. Unfortunately, the ruler of the known universe (I said I'd get back to her, didn't I?), a Q who was at that time on vacation for a millennia or so in the swamps while in the form of a twenty-five foot long female alligator, was fried along with everything else. This appalling error was to come back and haunt the Xindi species… all five remaining parts of it… for the remainder of their existence.

The inevitable emotional turmoil that this quick-fry-to-a-crackly-crunch of his homeland caused in the heart of our young human hero sent him straight into the arms of his now _extremely_ un-bored Vulcan companion. Then came the obligatory writhing on the floor without clothing and unsanitary exchange of bodily fluids that invariably follows this scenario, at least in every good story that _I'd_ like to read. And that's how they got together.

End


	3. Andorian Summer

Andorian Summer

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, drama

Rating: PG-13

Summary: And now for something completely different. It's set in Season 4 after Terra Prime, and is AU, for reasons which will soon become obvious.

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"It's strange…" he said in a distracted tone of voice. "There's no pain anymore unless I move."

"Then perhaps you should refrain from moving."

"Heh!" he chuckled, and then grimaced. "Don't make me laugh!" he protested.

She raised a brow. "That was not my intention," she replied, and then reached forward to tuck the reflective emergency blanket closer around his shoulders.

The man lay on a makeshift pallet on the rocky floor of the cave, in a hollow scraped free of ice and snow. He stared out past the circle of heat reddened rocks that served as the substitute for a campfire and through the jagged opening in the rocks at the mouth of the cave. It was sleeting now. It had been raining before.

"I think I prefer Andoria in the winter. It might be fifty below, but at least it's a dry cold."

"You must be quiet, Captain. Conserve your strength."

There was silence for a moment.

"Which faction shot us down, do you think?"

The woman sighed. "I have insufficient information to speculate on that, Jon. Now please try to rest."

"Sorry. I was just talking. It gets my mind off things. How long has it been?"

"Seven hours and forty three minutes," she replied patiently.

"Seems like Trip should have found the homing beacon by now."

"The weather may be interfering with the search… that and the fact that the Andorian authorities would most likely prefer that we not be found. He may also be waiting for a break in the storm. The weather at this time of year in this area is warm, relatively speaking. He wouldn't be aware of your injury, and thus would not feel the need for excessive haste which might risk the lives of a landing party," she replied with flawless logic.

"Heh. Somehow I doubt he's just sitting on his hands doing nothing, T'Pol. He's probably frantic by now."

"Commander Tucker is perfectly capable of command. I sincerely doubt that being without your assistance for a few hours is distressing him."

"I never said it was _me_ he'd be frantic about," he said. She shot him a look, but said nothing.

He shifted on his pallet and tried to sit up. The effort wrenched a groan from his lips, and he flopped back down again, breathing heavily. She rose from her place opposite him across the rapidly cooling stones and knelt near his head, placing a hand on his sweat-drenched forehead and gazing with concern at his distended abdomen.

"Feels good," he murmured. "Your hands are so cool."

"Your temperature is dangerously high. I will get a fever reducer from the medical kit."

"I'd rather have the flask from the emergency rations," he said weakly.

"If the worms have penetrated your esophageal or gastric mucosa, the consumption of alcohol could cause considerable pain," she warned. He smiled bleakly.

"That's my girl… always a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day."

She raised a brow. He chuckled briefly, and then grimaced.

"But then, you aren't_ my_ girl are you? Never have been."

She inclined her head in concession. "No… but I am your friend," she admitted.

"Then get me the damned bourbon."

He turned his head away to watch the sleet bounce haphazardly off the rocks. His lips twisted wryly.

"I guess there's one good thing to come of all this… Ever since we met the Aenar, I've been wondering where the hell those ice borers were swarming _to_. Now I know."

She handed him the flask. "Stop it, Jon. Please."

He grasped the screw cap and twisted it off without looking at her. "Here's to you and Trip! I wish both of you a happy life together!" Then he took a stiff dose of it into his mouth and swallowed with a defiant scowl. His face turned white.

"It's not so bad," he wheezed painfully. Then he screwed the top back on and handed the flask back to her. She took it from him and sighed.

"There's morphine in the field kit. Do you want some now?"

He nodded. She went to prepare the hypospray.

The sleet was slowing down. He caught occasional glimpses of the gleaming white peaks of the distant mountains through the haze. She came back and pressed the hypospray into his neck, and within minutes he was sleeping with her fingers interlaced with his.

_He woke to the distant rumble of attitude jets. Through the cave entrance, he saw a figure in Starfleet uniform approaching. He watched as T'Pol rose to meet Trip, and was happy when she allowed Trip to embrace her. Over their shoulders the Andorian sun broke out of cloud cover, illuminating the great, wide mountain peaks in unbelievable whiteness. It was time to go home._

T'Pol woke lying by the circle of stones, now cooled to ambient temperature. Something had awakened her. At first, she couldn't put her finger on it. Then it hit her. He wasn't breathing.

End


	4. The Object of My Desire

The Object of My Desire

By 2Distracted

Genre: "Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge", drama

Rating: PG

Summary: It's only indirectly TnT, but hopefully you'll all see why I had to do it this way.

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I am sick, or so my physician has informed me while repeatedly forbidding my release from this place. His intransigence has placed a pall upon my spirit which I am eager to dispel. I have been told that my treatment plan includes allowing me the freedom to express my distress through journaling. Distress! Indeed I am distressed. To be thought mad when I am no such thing is a burden upon my soul. My condition is not madness, but the desire to experience the fullness of passion in all its forms. Elation… terror… despair…astonishment… all of these have been denied me by the cruel happenstance of my birth. Had I been the child of a human or a Klingon, they would have been my birthright. Only my Vulcan parentage thus restricts my experience. The injustice of it does distress me.

My intense longing for passionate interaction with another being has placed me here, and I must confess that it was primarily my forceful attraction to one ethereal creature which was my undoing. From the moment that my eyes were first riveted by her exquisiteness, I found her impossible to resist. She was grace personified and beauty incarnate, with a profound erudition which awed me. Her innocence and lack of self aggrandizement likewise charmed me most successfully. Shortly following our first meeting, I became preoccupied with the idea of possessing her. Her aloof, typically Vulcan character and her obvious distaste for the V'tosh Katur only served to whet my appetite for the challenge.

Through patient discussion and careful tutelage I was able to coax her to risk enkindling the forbidden passions which are the fate of every Vulcan who chooses to forego the strict disciplines of our race. When alone with her following her first night of dreams, I detected a faint emerald flush upon her cheek when her eyes fell upon my body. I was emboldened by her glance, and was thereby convinced that she desired me as well. Although she later proved to be most fickle and cruelly dismissive of my regard for her, at the moment when she agreed to attempt the meld I was the most ecstatic and joyful of beings. Our mental union seemed to me to be concrete evidence of a dramatic sympathy of soul for soul between myself and the object of my obsession. Inexplicably, she thought it a rude invasion, and was fearful of it. No attempt at reassurance was successful, and in my desperation to continue, I succumbed to yet another emotion. Fury overwhelmed me. I meant no harm, and yet in my zeal to possess her I did damage her beyond her ability to forgive. My anger knew no bounds, and I sought at first to destroy her, tormented by her refusal of me. I had no true desire to harm her, however, and retreated to regain control. Meditation does have its uses.

Once serenity had returned, I immediately realized my error, and I transferred my attentions to those forbidding me access to her. My encounter with her captain tested my resolve, for I knew that if I seriously injured him I would be barred from contact with the object of my desire, and yet my fury was such that I narrowly escaped killing him. The final betrayal by my own captain, his cruel incarceration of me without justification or due process, was the event which forced me to make my decision. I began at that moment a mental listing of all those who would keep my beloved from me. I became determined to eliminate them, and thus regain her regard.

This determination has not waned. Indeed, as the months pass I find myself longing with an earnest and consuming desire for the mental touch of the one exquisite being deserving of my unfaltering affection. I have wholeheartedly forgiven her betrayal. I have not, however, been idle. I have succeeded in convincing my physician of my benign intentions, and am allowed access to the transmissions of current events within the common room of this facility. Sitting here amongst the truly mad, I have become even more convinced of my sanity. The transmissions have given me a new focus for my efforts. I feel confident that, given sufficient time, I will be successful in my campaign to overcome my physician's reluctance to release me from this place. Once I am released, my goal is clear. Only one obstacle remains. The latest newscasts of the conquering heroes returning from war, detailing in voyeuristic detail each crew member's plans for the future, every choice of recreation, every side voyage to meet family members and friends, have made it clear to me that there remains only one person to be eliminated in order to free the heart of my beloved T'Pol.

Commander Charles Tucker the Third must die.

End


	5. The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party

By 2Distracted

Rating: G

Genre: "Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge", humor

Disclaimer: None of it's mine, not even the plot.

Summary: Okay. So this one's a direct steal. I couldn't help it. Once I got the idea, Trip wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote the darned thing.

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When Charles Tucker the Third, better known as "Grampa" to every young person under the age of twelve standard years in the local community for reasons inexplicable to every adult in the vicinity, announced that he would shortly be celebrating his one-hundredth birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was general consternation and puzzlement in the small village of Shi'Mek.

Tucker was very wealthy and extremely peculiar, but this was expected of a human and not generally remarked upon in polite company. His mate, the Lady T'Pol, had served as the village's local congressional representative for nearly three decades. Her years of service to the community were usually considered sufficient justification for ignoring her spouse's occasional lapses in socially acceptable behavior. In this instance, however, because the well-preserved human had sent invitations only to the young people of the town, being very publicly and most verbally of the opinion that "only Vulcan kids have any idea of how to throw a good party", the adults were quite understandably concerned over the potential detrimental effect that the human might have on their children's developing young minds. The children, on the other hand, were all very excited over the prospect of a genuine human style "birthday party", and enthusiastically volunteered their services.

The youngest of Tucker's group of admirers was a boy named Sarek, all of five standard years of age and much admired by his peers for his uncanny ability to get into trouble. By a week before the scheduled festivities, he'd already spread rumors of exotic things such as "fireworks"… small confined explosions deliberately set off for the sole purpose of creating esthetically pleasing patterns of lights in the night sky… and a "piñata"… an apparently violent and atavistic practice involving pummeling an artificially constructed animal until it fell to pieces and discharged its artificial entrails, traditionally composed of edible substances of questionable nutritional value. There would also be, according to the children's efficient rumor mill, enormous amounts of an entirely sucrose based confection called "birthday cake", and volumes of an imported frozen confection called "ice cream"… both made from soy beverage rather than animal products to avoid offending anyone's delicate sensibilities.

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A mere twenty-four standard hours before the greatly anticipated event, Tucker was in the courtyard of the home he shared with his mate, sitting with her looking out over the rock strewn plain that stretched behind the main house. The suns were just beginning to set, and the late evening winds blew the fine sand into intricate patterns on the dunes.

"I will miss the beauty of this desert," remarked T'Pol quietly. "I am told that there is nothing that can compare to it anywhere else in the known universe."

Tucker smiled at her solemn expression. His hair was sparse and white, his skin leathery and wrinkled from years of exposure to the blazing suns of his wife's homeworld, but his smile remained the same. T'Pol, for her part, was grey at the temples and had a few more of what her mate ironically referred to as "laugh lines", but her frame remained straight, slim, and strong.

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm very fond of it… of the whole village, actually… but I think I need a vacation."

"You're certain about the plan, then?"

"I am. You?"

She reached out and interlaced her fingers with his. "I am," she confirmed.

He squeezed back and grinned at her. "It'll be a terrific joke, anyway… don't you think?"

She raised a brow. Her expression revealed her opinion about the likely outcome of attempting to play a "joke" on Vulcans. "If you say so, husband," she replied blandly.

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There were only about thirty children under the age of twelve standard years in the entire village, due primarily to the uniquely Vulcan habit of having only one child every seven years, but the courtyard of the Tucker home was much more crowded than expected the following evening. No self-respecting Vulcan parent would allow their impressionable child to attend the gathering without appropriate supervision. For that reason, once all the invited guests had arrived, the festivities resembled a performance with an audience… a most solemn audience… much more than they resembled an actual party, at least until the guest of honor arrived. He exited the house with a broad smile on his face, wearing a conical hat made of metallic gold paper on his head and blowing on a device which coiled and uncoiled like a rock lizard's tongue and made a most appalling noise. He passed hats and blowers out to the children, who, after token looks toward their parents, began blowing most enthusiastically. A few of the parents actually put their hands over their ears. Following the expenditure of tremendous amounts of excess energy enthusiastically destroying a paper mache sehlat with a stick while blindfolded, the children were re-energized with the candy that fell to the ground. Their parents were careful to check the wrappings of the candy before allowing their children to consume items which had recently been in contact with the stones of the courtyard. This small dose of sweetness would not be the only source of sucrose for the evening, however.

After a human style lesson on the fine points of the "Happy Birthday Song", the long awaited birthday cake, complete with a veritable forest fire of candles, was brought out by the local congressional representative to enthusiastic applause prompted by the birthday boy himself. Tucker's lung capacity proved inadequate to the challenge, and several of the younger children assisted with fire control measures. The juiciness of their attempts didn't seem to deter the other children, although it was noted that the pieces of cake which were later distributed to the adults largely went uneaten. As the children filled their bellies, Tucker stepped out of the courtyard to the fireworks display. He bent to the fuses, lit them rapidly, and stepped back into the courtyard. When the first sparkle appeared in the sky, and the first "crack" caused every head to turn, he smiled. He spent the entire five minutes of his carefully orchestrated explosive display watching the faces of the children rather than the sky. Their jaws hung open. Some of the adults even looked mildly entertained. Following the last explosion, Tucker stood at the head of the table.

"Is everyone having a good time?" he asked the children with irrepressible enthusiasm. The children, high on sugar and overloaded with excitement, didn't spare a single glance toward their parents before chorusing in the affirmative at high volume.

"I certainly am!" he continued. "I just want to say a few words, though…"

A few of the children shouted, "Story! Story!" (Tucker, you see, was famed for his stories.)

He smiled and shook his head. "It's late, and I just wanted to tell all of you how much I have enjoyed being a part of this community for all these years… but as you can see, humans don't last quite as long as Vulcans, and I'm kinda overdue for an overhaul…" He turned to T'Pol and extended two fingers. She reached out and made contact.

"This is my public announcement of retirement from public service," she said in a firm voice. A murmur of consternation went through the crowd. Her eyes remained fixed on her husband's.

"You'll find everything in order with our executor," continued Tucker rather ominously. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of armbands. "I wish to make an announcement," he said as he handed one to his mate and placed the other around his forearm. She put hers on as well. "I regret to announce that, although over seventy years is much too short a time to be among you, this is the end. We are going. Goodbye!" Then he reached to his forearm simultaneously with his mate, and they both vanished into thin air. No haziness. No transporter whine. They were just… gone.

Everyone in the courtyard stood looking at the place where the two of them had been with their mouths open. Even the adults displayed a positively unseemly amount of emotion. It was, considering the audience, a most spectacularly successful practical joke, and they all had Agent Daniels to thank for it. Tucker even managed to find reference to the event in the year 3156, once the rejuvenation treatments widely available in that time had restored his ability to read the exasperatingly tiny print on the library padd his mate had bought him for his birthday.

End


	6. Fish Camp Tale

Fish Camp Tale

By 2Distracted

Genre: "Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge", humor

Disclaimer: Not mine

Summary: Another indirectly TnT tale.

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When the weather's still warm here in South Louisiana, right after the sticky heat of the summer and right before huntin' season, me and a few a my friends like ta hang around the camp after a weekend of fishin' in the Gulf and tell stories. Some a those stories get pretty wild. Maybe it's the comp'ny. Maybe it's the beer. I dunno which.

Last weekend, Mike Breaux, a friend a mine from over by Donaldsonville, brought a cousin a his from Mississippi along… some old coot by the name a Jackson. He was a character, lemmee tell ya. Had a Mississippi accent so thick ya could cut it and spread it on bread. He told a story we all had a hard time swallerin'. This is what he told us. I didn't leave nuthin' out. Not a single word.

"Ya'll're allus tellin' them tall tales 'bout the one that got away, but they ain't nuthin' compared ta the story my friend Charlie told me a while back. Bein' as how he ain't here, gimme one a them long necks and lemme tell ya 'bout Charlie Tucker's boy, Trip.

"Umm, yeah. That's damn good beer!

"Anyways… y'all know Tucker's boy's some high powered engineerin' type out there on that starship, right? Charlie's been braggin' on him somethin' fierce fer a couple years now. Well, come ta find out that the boy changed horses in mid-stream there and left _Enterprise_ fer that new ship… what's it called? _Challenger_ maybe?

"Oh, yeah. Well, I knew it started with a "C".

"Anyways… Charlie told me it was 'cause the new ship's engines needed overhaulin' and his boy was the only one for the job. I have my own ideas 'bout that, though. Seems like every _week_ Charlie was braggin' about how young Trip was just a chip off the ol' block with the ladies. I'm thinkin' alla that charm finally caught up with the boy. Heh. Yeah. A starship's a mighty small place if ya got two females after ya… maybe more if Charlie weren't exaggeratin' too much.

"So young Trip was on that there other ship, just travelin' along, and they came across _Enterprise_, and went along together for a while. Seems Trip had a buddy named Mal back on _Enterprise_ who got a hankerin' ta do some fishin', but there weren't nothin' ta catch out there a course, being as how there weren't no fish within 'bout 200 light years, so Mal decides he's gonna set out a line and catch hisself a ship. Well, before ya know it, them two ships are travelin' along at warp speed connected to each other by a big fat fishin' line!

"Well, Trip, he don't wanna be left outta the fun, so he decides ta grab that line… and guess what he does? He _rides_ the damn thing from one ship t'other just ta pay a visit! Scares the pee-wocky-doo outa Mal an' everybody else. Mal figures he's caught the biggest catch anybody ever caught, though, what with how big that there ship is… _Columbia_, right?... so he don't mind much."

Then Jackson just shut right up and wouldn't do nothin' but drink more beer. When he told that tall tale, well, none of us believed it. We just figured it was all in fun. There ain't no way he was tellin' the truth. I mean, I'd sooner believe the boy was sleepin' with a Vulcan, ya know?

End


	7. Brainstorm

Brainstorm

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, satire

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. I really don't want this version anyway.

Summary: This is meant to be taken tongue in cheek. You might taste a little blood when you're doing it. It's not my fault, okay? I'm imitating a master of ironic nastiness.

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Several years ago a friend of mine who's a screenwriter asked me out to dinner. His stated purpose was business. He knew that I was an avid reader of science fiction and an occasional admirer of well-done televised sci-fi. He didn't, of course, understand the difference… but then, few people do. Despite the fact that he'd called me into his august presence to "brainstorm", as he put it, he monopolized the conversation, as usual.

He was working on a screenplay that he'd already pitched and sold to a production company that shall remain nameless. He'd decided to go with a tried and true formula that had worked for them before, and he wanted my input to "change it up a bit". When I questioned him further, he gave me the details. The series would take place on a space ship of some sort. The primary characters would consist of a maverick captain who thought with either his gut or his gonads… he hadn't decided which…, a miracle working engineer with an accent, a beautiful young female communications officer, an eccentric ship's physician, and a coolly logical alien first officer. At that point I asked him if he thought that the viewers might possibly recognize the derivative nature of the series and get bored with it too quickly. He ridiculed the idea, giving the opinion that "television viewers aren't nearly as smart as they think they are." I shut up after that and just let him talk. Eventually, he finished his spiel and gave me an expectant look. I chewed on my lip for a minute and then ventured a suggestion.

"You could make the series character driven," I said. "Give the viewers relationships and drama. Let the characters grow as individuals over time instead of remaining cardboard cutouts, unchanged by the events that transpire."

My friend did a spit take with his glass of Chianti and laughed in my face.

"That's a soap opera, not sci-fi," he chortled. "Sci-fi is always plot driven. The viewers want action… explosions and gadgets and fancy makeup. No one wants to watch character driven sci-fi!"

And that, as they say, was that.

I watched his series for a season or two. It was everything he said it would be. I heard rumors about declining ratings, though, and pretty soon he was on the phone again, asking me to meet him at that same restaurant. I knew it was futile, but he was paying and the food was good, so I went.

"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. This has worked before. It should work now!" he protested over his plate of penne pasta and chicken, with marinara sauce and without cheese. He was on a diet.

"Maybe the viewers want more relationships and fewer explosions," I told him. He ignored me. He was chewing. Then his face brightened.

"Sex! I'll give 'em sex!" He grinned at me, forked another hunk of red-dripping chicken into his mouth and began chewing. "You're a genius, my friend… a frickin' genius!"

When I tried to explain that sex wasn't precisely what I had meant, he waved his fork at me and started spouting poetic about the physical attributes of the two actors whose characters he planned to place in a completely gratuitous and contrived physical relationship strictly to increase his ratings. They apparently were two extremely attractive young people. I hadn't really noticed before, having been expending all of my energies trying to make sense of the plot. After our second brainstorming session I had no choice but to notice, though, as the episodes subsequent to our meeting featured multiple opportunities for the viewers to appreciate the physical attributes of said young people in various states of undress. The scenes were titillating, to be sure, but didn't achieve the ratings increase my friend was looking for. Finally, he called me again.

"They're canceling it. I've got to do something to 'go out with a bang'!" he told me in desperation. I agreed to meet with him for the third and final time. He wasn't on a diet this time. He had the porterhouse steak with a baked potato, fully dressed.

"The execs are calling my work boring and derivative. I'll never get another series again unless I can come up with something original!" he told me with his mouth full.

I eyed him over my cup of coffee. I had no delusions left. The man would never listen to me, but I gave it a try anyway.

"Respect the characters you've created. Give them a believable future… one that's consistent with the personalities you've created for them. The fans will give you their support and will look for your work," I said. His eyes had glassed over at the word 'future', though. I don't think he heard a word I said.

"I'll link it to the rest of the franchise," he said to himself with a look of self-satisfaction. "That's the key… the future." He smiled and took a gulp of his wine. Then he speared a hunk of steak with a fork and started waving it in my face. "And I'll kill off a major character permanently. No one's done _that _before! It's perfect!"

No amount of argument from me would budge him. He was firm in his resolve, so I gave up. The last I'd heard, some woman had taken a pot shot at him at a science fiction convention in Cleveland… or maybe it was Tulsa. I don't remember. Fortunately, she missed. He's decided to focus his attention on westerns now. He says that sci-fi fans take themselves too seriously.

And so it goes.

End


	8. Combat

Combat

By 2Distracted

Rating: PG

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, drama, romance

Disclaimer: These characters are most regrettably not mine.

Summary: Trip's musings before deciding to leave _Enterprise_ for _Columbia_… or they would be if he were a true drama queen. Sorry.

Ummm… not only is this REALLY over the top (Not my fault! You should READ this author's stuff!), but it's also AU… in a good way. : )

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Early in the wee hours of beta shift, I lifted my head, and looking round and seeing the pinpoints of stars passing on their wandering way by my window, I asked, "What am I gonna do?"

But the answer my mind gave –"Leave _Enterprise_ at once" -- was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears. I said I couldn't bear such words now. "That she's gone and married someone else is the least of my worries," I told myself: "that I'm now awake after the dream of a future with her, and find my dreams destroyed, is something I could bear; but that I must leave her now and immediately, never to return, is intolerable. I just can't do it."

But then, a voice within me declared that I could do it and predicted that I would do it. I wrestled with it: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the suffering which leaving the ship-- leaving her-- would surely cause; but Duty, the tyrant, held Passion by the throat and told him that he had only begun to suffer, and swore that with his sinewy arm he would thrust Passion's delicate sensibilities down to unsounded depths of agony.

"I'll go to her," I cried then. "She'll help me!"

"No; you'll do this yourself, Trip Tucker. She won't help you. She's got her concerns and can't bear yours as well. You'll pluck your own right eye, yourself cut off your own right hand, and offer your own heart upon the sacrificial altar."

I rose up from my bed, resolved to face the solitude that awaited me, and after a splash of cool water to clear my head, approached the door of my cabin, intent upon some exertion to distract me from my distress. The door opened, and there she was, gazing upon me wearily. I allowed her entry, for she was inadequately dressed.

"You must sleep or ship's function will suffer," she said quietly. Why she should be there in the dead of night, and what arcane means she had used to determine my condition were not discussed. Simply looking upon her face caused my chest to tighten once again and my heart to pound nearly from my body. I averted my eyes from her silk-clad form.

"You're a married woman, T'Pol. Should you be here dressed like that at this time of night?" I asked her curtly. She gazed at me, wide-eyed, seeming somehow injured by my words.

"You are angry with me," she said. She sighed, and the musical utterance sent a shiver through my soul, yet I said nothing.

"I can help you sleep, if you'll allow it," she offered wistfully.

I closed my eyes, and with all my heart wished that this could be so, that her gentle ministrations could once again be mine, and that I would again feel the touch of her fingers upon my skin. Only one word thwarted that wish and made it a futile one: Husband.

"I think you should go before I do something I'll regret," I told her through clenched teeth. Her eyes held mine, with a question deep within them. She stepped closer.

"Would you?" she whispered. The cabin was cold, and her clothing provided little warmth. She wrapped her arms about her shoulders, drawing my eyes to the shimmer of silk and the glow of copper skin.

"Would I what?" I breathed distractedly.

"Regret," she murmured, reaching a hand, so warm, smooth, and strong, toward mine. Our fingers touched. I couldn't prevent myself from grasping hers. Duty spoke again, loudly railing against Passion, and engaged him in combat, once again throttling him and attempting to force him to submit. Passion rallied and fought back. In the struggle, tears were shed. They left trails down my cheeks, a single wavering line beneath each eye.

She reached up and pulled my head down, soothing my heated cheeks with the sweet touch of her lips, and Passion was victorious.

End


	9. Crossogre

Crossogre

By 2Distracted

Rating: PG

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, humor

Disclaimer: I only wish the idea were marketable!

Summary: A view of TnT from a unique point of view.

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When Crunch woke that morning he was in a very foul mood. That in and of itself was by no means unusual. Being an ogre, Crunch was virtually always in a foul mood. No, the unusual thing was the reason he happened to be in such a mood that morning. Having to dig himself out from under a pile of sizable boulders had had something to do with it. His head ached most abominably. Primarily though, it was the fact that the huge metal object that had fallen out of the sky in the middle of the night had picked _his_ cave to land on that was so distressing. His cave had been filled with decaying meat fragments adhering to the bones they'd arrived on, piles of semi-rotten leaves, and the bits and pieces of rocks that were left over when Crunch had done what he liked most to do with them, which was to crunch things. In short, he'd just gotten the cave exactly the way he liked it when something came along and crunched the whole thing much more completely than he'd ever be able to. It would have been embarrassing if Crunch had taken the time to think about it. He didn't, of course. Ogres rarely do.

He scratched his scalp through his mud-matted hair, trapping a stray louse in the process and squishing it satisfactorily between his fingers, and then looked around for the source of his trouble. He found it soon enough in the form of a puny little figure exiting the metal thing. It looked almost like a child—a rather sickly, excessively clean child dressed in an unappetizing shade of dark blue. Following the first figure came a second carrying a large bag. It was dressed in a very nice shade of blood red, and had some impressive bazonkas for such a scrawny thing. Crunch thought a moment. The action gave him a headache again, but allowed him to take stock of both his hunger and his disappointment. They wouldn't be any good at all for breakfast. Crunch preferred his food liberally seasoned with grime. It didn't taste right otherwise. He was really hungry, though, so he decided to make do.

"Hey! Are you okay? We didn't land on ya or anythin', did we?" piped the blue-clad pipsqueak. Crunch blinked and studied him for a moment. He sounded like he was speaking Ogreish, an obvious impossibility since it would never occur to an ogre to ask such a question, and so no words existed to express the concept. He straightened up to his full height and looked down on the tiny fellow, who reached his navel at best, and crossed his filthy, burly arms across his chest, squinting in puzzlement and smacking his lips. He discovered a bit of last night's supper between his pointed teeth and sucked at it to free it up. His stomach growled loudly. The little man's eyes widened and he backed up a bit, reaching for something on his belt. He turned to his companion and showed her the gadget with a worried look.

"You think this new UT is workin', T'Pol? I don't think he understands me… and he doesn't look like somebody I'd wanna have a misunderstandin' with!"

The female took the device from the male's hands and studied it calmly. Then she made eye contact with Crunch and spoke directly into it.

"I am Commander T'Pol. I am Vulcan. This is Commander Tucker. He is human," she said succinctly. "Who are you?"

Ah. Now this was interesting. His breakfast could talk to him.

Crunch mustered his verbal skills, and then rumbled, "Me Crunch. Me ogre," which was quite an erudite statement for an ogre.

The female raised a single brow at him. The male looked very confused. "Ogre? Did he say ogre?!" he said in a perplexed voice. He took the device back from the female and studied it. "There's _gotta_ be somethin' wrong with this thing!" he exclaimed, tapping it on the heel of his hand.

"Perhaps the computer searched the human cultural database and found the closest descriptive term?" suggested the female. Crunch paid no attention. His eyes were fixed on her chest. If only she weren't so puny—and so disgustingly clean. He was beginning to think of something else he might do with her besides have her for breakfast.

"He seems ta like ya, T'Pol," said the male with a smirk. He bent down and opened the bag the female had been carrying and pulled out two objects with handles and broad flattened ends, handing one to his companion. Then he gestured toward the metal object he'd just exited where it lay half-buried in dirt and scree. "Why don't ya ask him ta help us dig the shuttle out? From the looks of things, he knows his way around dirt," he said jokingly.

"Indeed," replied the female dryly. She gave Crunch a once over. Crunch stood just a bit taller and grimaced menacingly, just to show off. It didn't phase her in the least. He blinked in surprise, and then upped the ante with a deep reverberating growl. Immediately, the male stepped forward in a laughable attempt to protect her. The little fellow didn't even have a sword. The only things in his possession were his digging tool in one hand and a tube of metal with a hand grip in the other. It was clear from the small male's manner that he considered the female his own. That changed things considerably. As far as Crunch was concerned, any female dropped on his head in the middle of the night was his, no questions asked.

The female placed a hand on the male's arm. "If you confront him, you'll merely anger him, Commander," she said softly, eyeing Crunch with a wary expression and a hand at her own belt, from which jutted a hand grip similar to one in the male's hand.

"He looks like he wants ta _eat_ ya… or somethin'," protested the male, giving Crunch a suspicious look. His eyes cut to the female and back to Crunch. "I was just tryin' ta protect ya, T'Pol. Ya usually like it when I go all alpha male on ya," he said with a teasing smile, his eyes still fixed on his rival. The female rolled her eyes and addressed Crunch.

"We need to dig," she said, indicating the half-buried metal object. "This is our ship. After we dig, we will go. Will you dig too?" It was a simple, straightforward question. Crunch understood every word. His eyes narrowed with the effort it took to come up with a way to take advantage of it. "Crunch dig. Man go. You stay," was what eventually came out of his mouth.

Both of the female's eyebrows lifted at that. The male's response was a little more emphatic.

"Now you just wait one cotton-pickin' minute, you big, stupid, ugly, filthy…"

"Trip!" warned the female. "He understands you!"

Crunch wasn't particularly bothered by the name calling. The male was very observant. He wasn't about to let him have the female, though, so he charged, voicing a loud and impressive roar. Immediately, he saw a flash of light and felt a sensation like kick in the chest, so powerful that it knocked him cleanly off his feet and onto his rump, knocking the wind out of him with a sudden "Whoosh". He landed on a pile of sharp rock fragments with a startled expression on his face, now at eye level with his rival. How had the puny little fellow done it? The tiny male waved his metal tube in Crunch's face.

"She's mine, ogre," he said menacingly—at least, as menacingly as a midget armed with a tiny metal tube could. "Next time I'm settin' it to kill!" At the blank expression on Crunch's face, the blue-clad annoyance did something to the device in his hand and then pointed it at a nearby rock. A beam of light came out of the end of the tube and struck the rock, pulverizing it explosively. Crunch was suitably impressed. He climbed heavily to his feet, absentmindedly digging pieces of rock out from under the back of his muddy loincloth as he approached the smoking pile of shards that had once been a rock the size of his head. He vigorously scratched beneath the cloth as he studied the small man's handiwork. Then he turned and gestured to the device.

"Crunch dig. You keep woman. Leave crunching tube," he said dismissively. Then he ambled over to the "ship" and began to dig with both hands. Small rocks and dirt began to shower in a pile behind him. Crunch was very good at digging. He could hear his visitors talking as he worked, but the rattle of the rocks and the sheer joy of digging completely occupied his small mind. He heard the words, but made no effort to understand them.

"He expects a phase pistol in return for his labor, Commander. I will tell him that this is not an option," said the female.

"Are you crazy, T'Pol? Don't tell him! Look at him! He's like a back hoe or somethin'! We'll be outta here in a half hour at this rate. Let the man work," replied the male with admiration.

"We cannot give him this technology, Commander," she protested.

"I know that, and _you_ know that… but he doesn't know that!" he answered flippantly.

"What do you propose to do, then?" she demanded in a long-suffering tone.

"Well, I dunno about you, but I'm gonna go help him!"

A moment later, Crunch heard a shout from over his left shoulder. It was the shoulder where he habitually did not throw dirt while he was digging, and so was the safest place to stand.

"Hey, ogre! Want some help?"

Crunch paused for a moment in his labors and turned his head. Both of them were standing there with digging tools propped on their shoulders. The male had his teeth bared, but seemed friendly enough. The female looked ready to do battle. Crunch decided that maybe he was better off without her. He stepped to one side without a word to allow them to join him, and the three of them worked for a time in silence interspersed with the occasional grunt when the small male encountered a heavier rock fragment. Crunch began reaching down with one hand and grabbing the larger ones just so he wouldn't have to hear the noises the man was making. The female never grunted.

Within much too short a time, the job was done. (Crunch did so enjoy digging!) He stopped suddenly and stepped back, eyeing his fellow diggers as they cleared the last of the rubble from around a set of openings at the rear of the ship. He was really starving now, and the pair in front of him looked much more appetizing covered in sweat and rock dust. His belly rumbled. It occurred to him then, in a completely unexpected and miraculous moment of insight, that all he'd have to do is eat them, and then he'd have _both_ crunching tubes. It didn't occur to him to stop and consider the fact that he had no idea how to operate the devices. He was too hungry for that. He just walked up to the dirt-covered blue-clad one and grabbed him by the neck. He'd found that with larger prey, meals went so much more quickly and easily if he snapped the neck first. The small male was dangling from his fist with his eyes bugging out and his face beginning to go purple when Crunch felt the familiar kick of the tube weapon in the center of his chest, wielded by the female this time. He stayed standing. He had been expecting her to attack, and had braced himself against the ship, brandishing the struggling male threateningly in her face, as if her actions would affect his decision to kill or not to kill. He planned to eat them both anyway, of course, but she didn't know that. Or perhaps she did. His eyes widened as she pointed the weapon directly at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

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Trip piloted the shuttle back to the rendezvous coordinates in silence. The frosty disapproval from the copilot's chair was almost palpable. Finally, T'Pol spoke.

"Was it necessary to leave him the entire contents of our emergency ration pack, Commander?" she asked with cool displeasure. He grinned wryly with his eyes fixed on the forward view screen.

"He worked hard, T'Pol. He'll be hungry when he wakes up." He cut his eyes at her impassive face, and then continued teasingly, "Would ya rather I left him the other things he wanted?" He stuck his tongue in his cheek to suppress the overwhelming urge to laugh. Her face was a study in trying_ not_ to look outraged. He couldn't resist twisting the knife a little. "If you wanted ta stay, T'Pol, all you had ta do was tell me. I'd a put a nice ribbon around ya so he could unwrap ya when he woke up from his little nap."

She sniffed and lifted her chin, but didn't deign to respond to the jibe. Trip snickered. He was laughing when he said, "Yeah… I guess that woulda been ogre-doin' it a little, wouldn't it?"

T'Pol rolled her eyes and sighed. "You are incorrigible, Commander," she said.

End


	10. Performance Enhancer

Performance Enhancer

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery, drama

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I'm not making money. Still.

Summary: Addicts can make themselves believe anything. Sometimes they're right, though. Set in the Expanse after Archer's "death". T'Pol's in command, and Phlox is trying to keep her functional.

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I took a small vial of the offending substance in the proper dilution from the shelf in my laboratory and inserted it into the hypospray unit. Subcommander T'Pol's eyes followed my actions. Her efforts to suppress her eagerness were heroic, but the hunger in her eyes was unmistakable. She set the padd in her hands to the side and gripped the edge of the treatment table, effectively disguising her fine tremor. I pressed the hypospray into the side of her neck. She closed her eyes and let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

Once a day for three weeks now I had witnessed her response to the drug I was injecting into her bloodstream in a gradually reducing dosage, attempting to stave off the disabling withdrawal symptoms which would have rendered her non-functional for several days, an option which, although more expeditious than the gradual and torturous means she had chosen to wean herself from her addiction, was not feasible during this time of crisis. Commander Tucker was virtually rebuilding the ship from the hull inward in many areas. Lieutenant Reed was fully occupied with overseeing repairs on the weapons systems, and the captain was… unavailable. I wasn't ready quite yet to declare him dead. His replacement was less than exemplary in her performance at present, but she was all we had for the time being. I found myself each day struggling with the desire to pronounce her unfit for command. She certainly wasn't functioning at her best.

Each time I considered it, Commander Tucker's haggard face came to mind. Dared I place a further burden upon him? I knew without a doubt that ship's repairs were behind schedule. Supplies were scarce. The repair crews were on their last legs, and Tucker was expending twice the effort of any of them. There was no question that if I chose to declare Subcommander T'Pol unfit for command that Commander Tucker would step into the breach. I was equally certain that he would be willing to kill himself in the process. I had already thrown away my ethical principles once to keep the man alive. I certainly had no intention of allowing him to work himself to death.

And so I struggled daily with my conscience, repeatedly vowing to address the issue with the Vulcan and force her to remove herself from duty for a few days only, long enough to allow the drug to leave her system completely and for her to suffer through withdrawal, and thus return to her usual state of health. I refrained for two reasons only. Her cool composure for fully ninety percent of the day on her current treatment regimen reassured me that she was still quite capable of command. I remained also somewhat in awe of her spectacular intelligence and admiring of her capabilities, even in her current condition. I sighed in unconscious imitation of my patient. She opened her eyes. Her hands were steady.

"Was that the seven percent solution?" she asked calmly.

"Yes," I responded curtly. I replaced the hypospray unit into its case. "We'll begin the six percent tomorrow," I told her. She nodded. Then she moved to hand me the padd she'd brought with her.

"I've investigated the discrepancy you discovered in your genetic sample library, Doctor. It seems to be a simple computer input error. I see no hard evidence that anything is actually missing…" She paused, staring at the screen as I reached for the padd, pausing just short of relinquishing it. Her expression was overtly puzzled. In the first few moments following her injections, her mannerisms had been uncannily human-like of late.

"Is there something wrong, Subcommander?" I asked.

She stuck her tongue firmly into one cheek and studied the padd with great concentration. "I had this feeling yesterday, Doctor… following my last injection. I'm missing something. I can't quite grasp it. I think it's the trellium. I've read of the concept of intuition. Perhaps with the help of the drug, my mind is functioning more like the mind of the person who pilfered your samples…"

I gave her a perplexed look. "You just told me that nothing had been taken. Which is it?"

She squinted at the screen, obviously frustrated. She focused intently for several moments. Finally, she released a held breath explosively with a heartfelt "Kroykah!" whispered under her breath. I gazed back at her in amused surprise. She handed the padd to me finally, with a resigned shake of her head and a sheepish look.

"There's nothing there. I'm imagining things. Your genetic samples are intact, Doctor. The computer confirms it," she replied wearily.

I gave her a relieved smile. Admitting one's weaknesses is the first step to recovery.

"Thank you for investigating the problem so promptly, Subcommander. I know that you have many other duties to attend to. I'll see you tomorrow at the usual time," I told her reassuringly.

She nodded regally, now the perfect picture of serene Vulcan control. She rose from the treatment table and exited Sickbay. I examined the data on the padd she'd given me. All seemed in perfect order, so I put the padd away and went to feed my menagerie.

End


	11. No More Chocolate

No More Chocolate—I Mean It!

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, humor

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The format isn't mine. I do have some chocolate like this, though. It's unbelievable.

Summary: A personal journal. You'll have to guess whose, just like you have to guess the author I'm trying to imitate. I'm just evil that way. : P

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**Saturday 1 April**

_Chocolates—6 (Not Good), Alcohol—2 (Only sherry at one of Mum's unending garden parties so doesn't really count), cigarettes—2 (I always smoke when I drink!), situps—10 (Very Good, belly hurts like blazes now), New shoes bought—none (VERY good!)_

It's been a six chocolate day. Not just the bitty ones with the hard chewy centers that last forever so it makes you think you've had more than you've actually had, either. (Those are quite lovely for dieting. Really.) No, it was a six creamy hazelnut nougat filled melt-in-your-mouth mouthfuls of dark, rich, chocolate goodness kind of day. Firstly, Mum insisted that I accompany her to a garden party held by the wife of the local magistrate. She likewise insisted that I wear the dress that Great-Aunt Gloria sent me for my birthday last spring, a sleeveless floral number which Mum said "enhances my attributes and minimizes minor figure flaws", by which she meant that the print is so obnoxiously loud that it hides my squashy bits. Secondly, she paraded me about to every woman there with comments such as, "My daughter would _so_ enjoy meeting your son!" and "Did you know that my daughter is a very accomplished cook?" (Mum _will_ insist on calling me a cook, even though I've a diploma from the finest Cordon Bleu school in Paris.) Mum sometimes forgets that we're in Malaysia now and not in England, though. Half the ladies there wore the _hijab_. The looks they gave me when I arrived in that dress with my head uncovered! Their sons could have been over fifty and never married and still I would never have been allowed within sight of them. Living in a Muslim country has its drawbacks for a simple Church of England girl like me, especially with a Mum like mine who's oblivious.

I'm resisting the urge to eat more chocolate tonight. Mustn't overindulge. Mally's coming home. Tomorrow. And he's bringing friends. _Single _friends. He said_ two_ commanders, no less. That's even better than captains. They aren't required to go down with the ship, you see. _Much_ better if you happen to be married to them.

**Sunday 2 April**

_Chocolates—none (You'll soon see why! Grrr!), Alcohol—2 double martinis (Shaken, not stirred—to make up for no chocolate), cigarettes—don't remember exactly (Kept smoking the damned things until the martinis took effect, don't recall much after that), situps—10 (I'd best start now), new shoes bought—three pair (They were on sale. I needed them. Hell, it's better than comfort eating, right?)_

Mally's here. I'm _so_ ticked off at him, now! He could have mentioned that one of his commanders had the body of a goddess and the other one spent all of his time drooling over the first. I spent the entire day attempting to get young, blonde and positively dishy to notice my existence. He was polite, I'll grant him that. And the accent! Oh. My. Lord.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice me melting into an oozy puddle at his feet. Miss High and Mighty Vulcan noticed, though. I didn't think Vulcans_ got _jealous. If she wasn't, she was doing an excellent imitation of the green-eyed monster, that's all I have to say. And he was all eyes for her. How could he help it?

She was a Vulcan, after all. At first, I really thought that perhaps I still had a chance. Earlier this evening, before the martinis, I decided to take a stroll down the corridor toward the guest rooms. Catch a man alone, without distractions, and you never know what might happen, right? Malaysian houses have thin walls—good for ventilation in the heat and all that rot. I doubt the two of them realized exactly _how_ thin. It had to be her in his room. I checked her room (After listening to them moan, sigh, and gasp for a little bit, of course. A girl's got to get her jollies where she can find them, right?) and she wasn't in it. That's when I went shopping. Then I came home and drank myself stupid.

I've made a resolution. No more chocolate—I mean it! I need to get rid of the excess squashy bits and find me a man.

Bloody hell! What's she got that I haven't got? At least I can cook!

End


	12. The Wizzard of Schnozz

The Wizzard of Shnozz

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, humor

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Yep. Still not mine.

Summary: This author parodies _everyone_, so... (takes a deep breath before plunging into insanity) Here we go!

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Let's consider for a moment the plight of one Constable Banger Soggybottom, Sheriff of the village of Soggybottom, and thus a local celebrity in his own right, being the great-great-great-grandson of Baron Trifle Soggybottom, the august founder of the community. He'd been a bit busy of late, this constable, what with the sudden appearances of several great glowing globes of light in the surrounding countryside which tended to pop like huge balloons with quite a concussive force. One of them had actually injured Farmer Tam's prize stallion the day before, turning him into Farmer Tam's prize gelding. The men of the village had been walking about rather carefully since. This was, however, the first globe that had brought visitors.

The crowd was dense about the site of the occurrence, and Constable Soggybottom tried to shoulder his way through. Despite his considerable bulk and his impressive uniform, no one wanted to step aside.

"Make way! Constable coming through!" he shouted officiously. No one seemed to pay him much mind. They were too busy laughing, shouting, and patting the newcomers cheerfully on the back in thanks for a service well-done. The poor things looked a bit confused and bedraggled in the hubbub. One was a sandy haired man with piercing blue eyes, an unusual trait in that land of dark haired, darker eyed inhabitants. The other appeared to be a large, wingless faerie of some sort, quite attractive as faeries went. They stood near what looked like a severed segment of an iron bridge complete with railing, a massively heavy construction neatly cut into a perfect semi-circle with edges that still smoked in the crisp autumn air. A pair of legs protruded out from beneath the huge half-disc of metal mesh. After a moment of careful study, Soggybottom recognized the appendages in question. They belonged, or rather evidently had once belonged, to Brunhilde the Terribly Hideous, otherwise know by the local populace as the Heinously Evil Witch of the Northeast. Brunhilde was not very popular in these parts, being responsible for no less than three droughts and six cases of pestilence in the past five years alone, but even Constable Soggybottom hadn't had the nerve to demand that she leave town. In fact, the last farmer to confront her had been turned into a large toad. He could see now why much was being made of the newcomers.

"Here now, move aside!" bellowed Soggybottom as he lumbered through, reaching the new arrivals through the crowd by virtue of sheer mass. The townspeople yielded with only minimal grumbling.

"We just wanted ta meet 'em, Constable!" exclaimed Davy, the local blacksmith, glaring from beneath his single shaggy eyebrow with an affronted expression. Soggybottom eyed the young man's soot-stained green-tinted biceps as they bulged from beneath his sleeveless tunic and smiled a conciliatory smile. It never was a good idea to make Davy angry. No one liked him when he was angry.

"No need to get riled up, now, Davy," said the constable soothingly. "Just give me a chance to talk to these folks and find out what happened. By the looks of thinks, they're a little confused by all this fuss."

Davy exhaled, and grimaced a bit with embarrassment. Then he nodded and shuffled off back to his shop to pound out more horseshoes. The rest of the crowd took the hint, and started dispersing as well, leaving Soggybottom face to face with two very bewildered new arrivals to the town. They both wore uniforms. Curiously enough, the uniforms were not the same. The young man in blue pulled a device from his breast pocket, adjusted it, and then began to speak.

"Are you in charge here, sir? Can you maybe explain what's goin' on?" he asked respectfully, with a hopeful expression.

Soggybottom's chest swelled with pride, and he smiled expansively at the young man. Even this stranger knew who was important around here. That would teach the others a thing or two. He pulled out a pad of paper from his right breast pocket and flipped efficiently to an empty page. Then he pulled a pencil from his left breast pocket, licked the point of it just for effect, and looked up at the fellow.

"Well, now... Mister...?" The constable paused for him to fill in the blank with an expectant expression.

"Tucker," supplied the visitor. He exchanged a look with the scarlet clad faerie, as if he were unsure of whether he should say anything else. Soggybottom scribbled the man's name down and turned to his companion.

"And you, Ma'am?" he asked politely.

"T'Pol," she supplied succinctly. He scratched his head a bit over the spelling for that one, but managed to muddle through. Then he looked back up at the two of them with a bright smile.

"So... Mister Tucker and Mistress T'Pol, to what do we owe the honor of your visit to our little village on this fine day?" he asked breezily.

Tucker gave him a puzzled look, and exchanged another glance with his female companion before replying.

"We were kinda hopin' you'd be able to tell _us_ that, Mister...?" he paused in unconscious imitation of the constable himself. Abruptly, Soggybottom realized that he'd neglected to introduce himself. He pulled his notepad to his ample beltline and executed a brief bow.

"Chief Constable Banger Soggybottom of the municipality of Soggybottom at your service," he announced proudly. When he straightened, the fellow in the blue uniform had his tongue stuck in his cheek. He looked amused. Soggybottom sighed. It was, unfortunately, quite the usual reaction he got when introducing himself to strangers. It never failed.

"Ah...well..." The young man coughed and wiped something from his eye. "Constable... Soggybottom..." He cleared his throat and seemed to regain control of himself. "Comman... er... Mistress T'Pol and I were workin', you see, at our... usual place of employment. She was helpin' me with... repairs," he began. The faerie said nothing, but Tucker's head swiveled to look at her in mid-sentence before he continued. "A large anom... um... unnatural ball of light entered our workplace and, well, sort of swallowed us up and dropped us here." His eyes dropped apologetically to the pair of legs in garishly green and red striped stockings sticking out from beneath the huge piece of metal he'd arrived on. He winced. "Sorry!" he added with a grimace.

Soggybottom paused in his note taking long enough to wave a hand breezily in the air. "Think nothing of it, Mister Tucker," he said with his eyes fixed on the pad as he scribbled busily. "You've done the town a service. We're quite grateful, actually." He looked up again. "So, do either of you have any knowledge of the origin of these balls of light?" he asked. Once again, the newcomers exchanged a _look_. If Soggybottom hadn't known better, he would have thought that they were talking to each other. This time, it was the faerie that addressed him.

"You referred to them in the plural, Constable. Has there been more than one occurrence?" she asked, in a sultry voice that sent shivers up and down his spine. Soggybottom looked at Tucker with new understanding. No wonder the boy hadn't stuck with his own species. This one was enough to make any man jump the fence. He cleared his throat and answered her question.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied efficiently. "Six in the past week, as a matter of fact."

She raised an elegant brow and gave Tucker another meaningful look. Then she lifted her chin with a determined expression.

"Show us, please," she told him firmly. She was very polite, but Soggybottom knew an order when he heard one.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said again, and began the walk toward Farmer Tam's place at a brisk pace with both of them hot on his heels.

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T'Pol stood next to the paddock housing the huge black quadruped they'd come to study and examined the readings on her bioscanner with great concentration while Trip peered over her shoulder. The officious and overly cheerful constable stood to one side attempting to reassure the distressed-looking owner of the safety of his animal.

"_The animal's DNA matches the biological material the doctor discovered last week at the site of the anomaly in Sickbay,"_ she sent. Trip's pleased surprise was transmitted clearly.

"_So this place and the ship are linked somehow?" _he sent back delightedly.

"_That would seem to be a reasonable assumption_," she replied cautiously. "_We can't be certain that it is a permanent state," _she warned him. _"It would be logical to assume, then, that the longer we wait before identifying and taking advantage of another anomaly, the greater the chance that we will be deposited somewhere other than **Enterprise**."_

"_Like the middle of a black hole... or more likely just the vacuum of deep space_," added Trip wryly. She raised a brow and nodded her reluctant agreement.

Trip lifted his head and called, "Constable! Is there anybody around here who can predict these balls of light?" T'Pol gave him an impressed look. He grinned at her as Constable Soggybottom approached.

"There are some who claim to be able to do so," Soggybottom told them thoughtfully. He pondered the question for a moment. "You'd best consult with a witch," he told them with a sagacious nod.

Trip placed his hands on both hips, gazing at the constable with a disbelieving expression. "A witch?" he demanded. T'Pol could sense his frustration. Soggybottom frowned.

"I was under the impression that the local witch had recently become... unavailable," she added calmly, without a trace of disrespect or disbelief in her tone of voice. The constable's expression cleared, and he gave them both a bright smile.

"Not _that_ witch!" he replied in a relieved tone. "The good one's who I meant, of course," he clarified. He pulled a small instrument similar to a miniature trumpet from his inner jacket pocket. "I'm not supposed to call her except in an emergency, but if you want me to, I'll call her for you," he said with eager helpfulness. T'Pol nodded encouragingly, and so he placed the horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast—abominably off-key, but mighty nonetheless. Trip winced. T'Pol covered her ears.

Presently, a ball of light roughly the size of a human head came down from the low lying cloud cover and came to rest about two meters above the ground. Trip appeared poised to jump into it, but T'Pol's scan of the object revealed that it was not, in fact, an anomaly. As they watched, the shining ball elongated and then proceeded to transform itself into the figure of a woman. She was blonde, slender, and golden skinned, and wore a two piece garment which barely covered her primary erogenous zones. She smiled benevolently upon them all as she floated in midair.

"Hey, dudes," she said in a voice like bells wrapped in silk. "Like, how can I help you guys?"

Trip blinked in shock. T'Pol raised a brow, and then pulled out her UT to check the programming. The constable gave the ethereal figure a sweeping bow.

"Oh, most beautiful, wise and powerful Barbie, the Totally Cool Witch of the Southwest, we humbly ask a boon of you," he groveled.

The witch simpered a bit, smoothing her impossibly tiny waist with both hands. T'Pol caught a wisp of Trip's reaction before he got it under control. The images that she received were quite strange.

"_Malibu Barbie? Who's Malibu Barbie?"_ she send with puzzlement. He gave no response. He was too busy trying not to laugh out loud—certainly a potentially life changing if not life threatening action at such a moment.

"Wow! When you ask me so nicely, like, how can I say no?" replied the Totally Cool Witch of the Southwest. Encouraged by her response, Soggybottom raised his head and continued.

"Oh, wise one, these newcomers have come to our land by way of one of the huge balls of light that have been plaguing us of late," said the constable with a nervous smile. "They'd like to know if it might be possible to predict when the next one will occur so that they can ride it back to where they came from." He paused then, gazing at the witch as if he expected to be turned into a toad at any moment. His experience with Barbie's late unlamented colleague had made him just a little overcautious.

The witch's perfect features twisted into a small and quite attractive moue of distress.

"Oh, damn! Like, I totally have _no_ idea how to do that!" she told them in a disappointed tone. She pouted prettily. "I guess you'll need to see the Wizzard for that, and you don't need me anymore." She sighed, causing her bosom to rise and fall in a manner that seemed to catch Soggybottom's-- and Trip's—attention most effectively.

While the men stood with their mouths hanging open, T'Pol asked, "And where can we find this Wizzard?"

The lovely Barbie smiled, and waved her arm. Instantly, a path appeared. It was made of bricks of a peculiar pale pinkish-purple color... or perhaps it was purplish-pink. The path led away from the farm and across the countryside-- as far as T'Pol could see.

"Where can you find the Wizzard?" echoed the witch dramatically. "Why... follow the mauvey brick road!"

"Follow the mauvey brick road?" repeated T'Pol in a puzzled tone. _What sort of word is "mauvey"? _she wondered.

"Follow the mauvey brick road to the Wizzard of Schnozz," confirmed Soggybottom enthusiastically.

"So we need to see a wizzard. The Wizzard of Schnozz," confirmed T'Pol in all seriousness. She exchanged a look with Trip, who seemed to have recovered from his heaving-bosom shock and was now eyeing the road with a reluctant expression.

"Right-o!" confirmed Soggybottom confidently. He leaned toward her and said in a confiding tone, "I wouldn't mention his nose, though," he tapped the side of his own substantial facial architecture. "He's quite sensitive about that, you know..."

T'Pol sighed deeply. This was going to be a _very_ long trip. She could tell already. She turned to Trip.

"Are you ready, Commander_?"_ she asked ironically.

He grinned back at her. _"_Guess so. Too bad we don't have a little dog_,"_ he replied jokingly.

"A dog?" she asked with puzzlement.

He laughed aloud and reached for her hand. She took it unselfconsciously as they stepped together out upon the pathway of oddly colored bricks and began walking.

"It's a long story, darlin'. I'll tell ya on the way," he said.

End?


	13. Lullaby

Lullaby

By 2Distracted

Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, drama

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: These characters belong to whoever owns the franchise these days. They aren't mine.

Summary: With apologies to **JadziaKathryn**, who got there first. I had to do them all. I just had to. : )

Author's note: This is the last one, guys. Check out the end of this story for the keys to all the authors in the game.

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Trip, his chin resting upon both forearms, closed his eyes as warm hands pressed, probed and prodded his bare back. He clenched his teeth as the hands kneaded the corded knots between his shoulder blades.

-- Easy, T'Pol! You're killin' me, he groused.

--You're angry. It's making you tense, she replied. Her voice was flat and cold to his ears.

-- What do you expect, when you come to fetch me in Engineering every time I'm late for a session like I'm a kid late for class? he replied in an annoyed tone, shielding the hurt her apparent indifference caused him.

-- Your shift was over, Commander. You need to sleep to function, T'Pol countered blandly.

-- Hell... Sleep's overrated, he grumbled.

Her fingers dug in mercilessly. He focused his attention on the worn edge of the mattress, and tried to slow his breathing. Pain, both of the body and of the soul, fretted his heart. She'd come to him in a dream the night before and for so many other nights, not his torturer of the moment but another, dead now but still haunting him, her blonde locks seared by radiation, and the faint odor of burnt meat about her. Beyond the frayed edge of the mattress cover, the flame of the meditation candle flickered, its smoke shadows curling sinuously on the opposite wall as she must have curled while screaming and melting to charred bone and ash in the beam that split the Earth and destroyed his innocence.

From pinpoint flickerings at the window, his eyes were drawn to ebony blackness, sucking him deeper, and deeper still into nothingness. Oblivion called him, the void of emotion, the absence of pain. He longed for it with an intensity he'd never before experienced. Nonexistence became his goal.

-- Turn over and sit up, said T'Pol. He opened his eyes. She'd spoiled it again.

-- Why do you always _do_ that? he grumbled, all the while doing as she asked. He faced her, sitting. She eyed him with a raised brow, evidently waiting for him to explain himself before continuing.

-- Just when I get relaxed, you always make me sit up, and then I hafta start all over, he said, resigned.

-- Were you relaxed? she challenged. You still seemed rather tense to me.

He rolled his eyes.

She reached out strong, slender fingers, extending them along his jaw line. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.

-- Breathe, she told him. Rather redundantly, he thought.

Her fingers trailed beneath his chin to that ticklish spot that Lizzie could always find...

Pain shut the memory down, slamming it closed in his mind's eye. Only the occasional small trickle escaped: breezes stirred by the movement of the porch swing, cicada song, blonde tresses streaming backwards and tickling his nose as he pushed. Honeysuckle, its sweetness a tiny dewdrop on the tongue. One for you and one for me.

Fingers pressed, refusing to release him. He felt his pulse beating in his ears, his cheeks feverish and warm in the heat of the room. Pressure built in his chest, the intensity of it like a fiery balloon on the verge of bursting. He gasped, breathing deeply, helplessly. His eyes opened, and something gave way inside him. His eyes met hers. Tears began to flow.

-- Lie down, she told him, as if there were nothing amiss. Once again, he obeyed.

He lay face down again and rested his dripping chin on both forearms. He closed his eyes, but the tears continued. Pain flowed with them, filling his heart, and then his entire chest, the current carrying memories to soothe the rawness in his soul.

Her hands returned to his back, pressing without pain now, without the need for combating a tension which was no longer present. She stroked him with warm, smooth, soft, strong fingers. He exhaled again and went limp, finally.

-- 'Night, Lizzie, he whispered faintly, on the verge of sleep. Sleep tight.

End

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Answer key to "Guessing Game"

Chapter One: "The Naming"- Frank Herbert

Chapter Two: "Boy Meets Girl"- Douglas Adams

Chapter Three: "Andorian Summer"- Ernest Hemingway

Chapter Four: "The Object of My Desire"- Edgar Allen Poe

Chapter Five: "The Birthday Party"- J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter Six: "Fish Camp Tale"- Mark Twain

Chapter Seven: "Brainstorm"- Kurt Vonnegut

Chapter Eight: "Combat"- Charlotte Bronte

Chapter Nine: "Crossogre"- Piers Anthony

Chapter Ten: "Performance Enhancer"- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter Eleven: "No More Chocolate"- Helen Fielding

Chapter Twelve: "The Wizzard of Schnozz"- Terry Pratchett

Chapter Thirteen: "Lullaby"- James Joyce

Did you get 'em all? If you missed any, I strongly recommend that you head to the library this instant and start reading. Nothing's better for your writing skills than reading. (I promise! You can't use a word if you've never seen it. ) Thanks! —2Distracted


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